*An old dwarf sits in the corner booth of a tavern, a pint of dark ale clenched in one hand, an aged leather tome in the other. In due time, he would close the tome, and look pensively to the door*
As Ferek finished the lengthy tome, he reminisced on the history he read, and once had lived. He remembered his brother, Hamnil, not as a brute, but as his kin. He remembered Edel giving him the stewardship of New Jornheim, and the headaches caused by the sheer pain that was civil management. He remembered the nights spent at the bar with his fellow Frostbeards, toasting to their new nation, and to the bright days ahead. But most of all, he remembered his one time king, Verthaik, and the kindness the king shown to him, a dwarf coming in from the cold wilderness after a century of wandering.
“But, as is the fate of the vanquished,” Ferek would mutter to himself, “The history is written by the victor”
Ferek could not deny the actions of his kin, but he also could not help but grin at recalling the names of his friends, remembering the good times they once had as brothers, long, long ago. Not that it mattered much, all of his friends were now dead and scattered to the winds. Ferek was content to wander the world in self imposed exile, to seek a new meaning for his bleak life through his own actions and deeds. While he wished his bretheren well in these tumultuous times, he could not abandon the oath he swore to Verthaik all those years ago...
*the dwarf would down his pint in one swift gulp, pack the tome into his rucksack, and collect his few belongings. The well-oiled axe on his hip glinted in the light of the candles that adorned the tavern as he made his way to the door. He flicked a few coins to the barmaid, donned his hood, and disappeared into the dark of the night*
*An old dwarf sits in the corner booth of a tavern, a pint of dark ale clenched in one hand, an aged leather tome in the other. In due time, he would close the tome, and look pensively to the door* As Ferek finished the lengthy tome, he reminisced on the history he read, and once had lived. He remembered his brother, Hamnil, not as a brute, but as his kin. He remembered Edel giving him the stewardship of New Jornheim, and the headaches caused by the sheer pain that was civil management. He remembered the nights spent at the bar with his fellow Frostbeards, toasting to their new nation, and to the bright days ahead. But most of all, he remembered his one time king, Verthaik, and the kindness the king shown to him, a dwarf coming in from the cold wilderness after a century of wandering. “But, as is the fate of the vanquished,” Ferek would mutter to himself, “The history is written by the victor” Ferek could not deny the actions of his kin, but he also could not help but grin at recalling the names of his friends, remembering the good times they once had as brothers, long, long ago. Not that it mattered much, all of his friends were now dead and scattered to the winds. Ferek was content to wander the world in self imposed exile, to seek a new meaning for his bleak life through his own actions and deeds. While he wished his bretheren well in these tumultuous times, he could not abandon the oath he swore to Verthaik all those years ago... *the dwarf would down his pint in one swift gulp, pack the tome into his rucksack, and collect his few belongings. The well-oiled axe on his hip glinted in the light of the candles that adorned the tavern as he made his way to the door. He flicked a few coins to the barmaid, donned his hood, and disappeared into the dark of the night*